Cupid Painted Blind

by Marcus Herzig

  “Would you like to go to the Sadie Hawkins Dance with me?”

  “I heard you,” he says. “What’s a Sadie Hawkins Dance?”

  I pull one of Sandy’s fliers out of my pocket and hand it to him. While he looks at it, I tell him everything I know about Sadie Hawkins, or at least everything I remember from Milo’s lecture. Phil listens intently, but without any discernible reaction.

  “So what do you say?” I ask when I’m finished.

  He hands me back the flier. “So does that mean you’re the girl in this relationship?”

  “There is no girl in this relationship,” I say, glaring at him. “That lipstick thing was a one-off. Stop holding it against me.”

  “Right.” He looks at me, squinting against the gleaming sunlight. “But shouldn’t I be the one asking you out to the dance? With me being the ugly one and everything?”

  “That’s cute, but I wasn’t gonna take a chance on this one. Are you gonna ask me out to the dance then?”

  “No?”

  “See? I knew it, that’s why I’m asking you out.”

  “Thanks,” he says, picking a scab on his elbow, a remnant of that incident two weeks back. “But I’m not a good dancer.”

  “Yeah, I’m not a good dancer either. Who cares? Dancing isn’t mandatory, even at a dance. We can just mingle and hang out with our friends, and look at other people who are not good dancers either but who don’t give a damn and dance anyway.”

  “I don’t have any friends, though.”

  “Jeez, I wonder why that is,” I say, rolling my eyes. Then I nudge him with my elbow maybe a little harder than necessary. “Anyway, I’m your friend. And my other friends are your friends by proxy, kind of. So stop making up silly excuses.”

  “Sorry. But do you really want to go to a school dance with a guy like me? After everything that happened? Do you really want to spend an evening having people make even more fun of us?”

  As if on cue, two guys and a girl from my math class walk by, all wearing purple. One of the guys says, “Hey, Matt.” The other guy nods at us and smiles, and the girl says, “Hi, guys.”

  “Hey,” I say and wave. Then I turn to Phil. “See?”

  “What?”

  I flick my head at them. “See how these bullies just made fun of us? It almost made me want to run home to my mom and cry. And they’re wearing purple, too! Probably ironically, to ridicule the whole concept of Spirit Day. It’s hopeless, Philip. The whole world is against us, so we should probably just crawl under a rock and die.”

  “Maybe?” Phil says in a low voice, still picking his scab and working hard to avoid my gaze.

  “I’ll give you maybe!” I say and give him a friendly but determined push with both hands so he almost topples over on his side. “I was being sarcastic, you idiot!”

  I bite my tongue and immediately regret what I said. People have been calling him a retard his entire life, so maybe calling him an idiot—even if it was meant as friendly banter—wasn’t exactly considerate. To my relief I notice a subtle smirk on his face because apparently he was being sarcastic too. Nevertheless, to make sure he knows I didn’t mean it, I lean into him and plant a quick peck on his cheek.

  “Get a room, you two!” a voice sounds from behind us. When we turn to look, El Niño and Hurricane Sandy come walking towards us. He slumps on the ground next to me while Sandy sits on the other side of Phil. She’s wearing purple shorts. Alfonso has two purple ribbons pinned to his T-shirt, one over each nipple. Chris has been passing ribbons out all morning to people who couldn’t find any suitably colored garments in their wardrobe.

  “Are we interrupting something?” Alfonso asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, shaking my head, “except my boyfriend here giving me the brush-off. He says he isn’t coming to the Sadie Hawkins Dance with me.” I nudge Phil with my knee. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes?”

  “Matthew,” Sandy says as if she were talking to a seven-year-old. “Phil is just teasing you. Of course he’s coming to the dance.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Of course you are. We’re all coming.”

  “Well,” Alfonso says, “nobody’s asked me yet, so I don’t know about that.”

  “Wanna go to the dance with me, Alfonso?” Sandy asks.

  “Wait,” he says, “don’t you want to ask Jason first?”

  “Too late. Kishana already asked him and he said yes.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  Sandy shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s not like I’ve called dibs on him or anything.”

  “Right,” Alfonso says. “All right then, let’s do it.”

  “Awesome.” Sandy turns to Phil. “See? Everyone’s going.”

  “I’m not,” Phil insists.

  “Yes, you are. We’re all friends, we’re all going. What are people supposed to think of us of you’re not coming? It’ll make us all look bad, and it’ll be your fault, and I will be mad at you forever. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “No?”

  “There you go then, it’s settled. I’m sure you look great in a tuxedo.”

  Phil wants to protest, I can see it in his face, but he knows Sandy is not going to let him off the hook, so he keeps quiet. I have no illusions. This matter is far from settled, and I know I will have a lot more convincing to do once I’m alone with him again. But it’s a start, and if he remains stubborn I can always sic Sandy on him again.

  “Guys, guys!”

  We turn our heads to see Chris run towards us like an excited middle-schooler who just found his dad’s secret stash of porn. He’s wearing a purple T-shirt reading #spiritday in white lettering.

  “Isn’t this awesome?” He says with a sweep of his arm indicating the entire campus.

  Alfonso nods. “That is one beautiful campus for sure.”

  “Not the campus, you idiot! The people. Spirit Day! Everyone is taking part, and I don’t mean that hyperbolically. I’m talking about e-ve-ry-one. Every single person in this school is wearing something purple today, even if it’s just socks or hair bands or whatever. Even the teachers. Mr. Mills is wearing a purple tie! Some people didn’t have any purple garments in their wardrobe, or at least that’s what they claimed.” He arches an eyebrow at Alfonso. “But I bullied them all into sticking on our Spirit Day ribbons.”

  “That’s kinda ironic, isn’t it?” Alfonso says.

  Chris frowns. “What?”

  “Bullying people into supporting an anti-bullying event?”

  Next to me, Phil opens his mouth, presumably to share how he was bullied into wearing a purple T-shirt by his boyfriend, but I put my finger on my lips and say, “Shhh!”

  “Yeah, well,” Chris says with a grin, “it’s for a good cause, so the end justifies the means.”

  Alfonso throws me a surreptitious look over this bold statement. Every end clearly doesn’t justify any means, but basically having bullied Phil into wearing a purple T-shirt today doesn’t exactly put me in a position where I should be overly self-righteous, so I just shrug.

  Hey, I’m only human.

  Meanwhile, Sandy is getting on her feet and gives Chris a big hug.

  “Great job, Chris,” she says. “I’m very proud of you.”

  “Aw, that’s so sweet, Sandy. Thank you!” He rubs her back and kisses her on the cheek. “But you know what’s best? You’re never gonna guess.”

  “What is it?”

  He looks at his watch. “In a few minutes I’ll be meeting with a reporter from the Brookhurst Sentinel. They heard about our event, and they want to interview me. How awesome is that?”

  We clap and cheer, and Chris takes a bow, visibly pleased by our acknowledgment of his achievement. Behind him, Jack is walking across the lawn, making his way toward us.

  He’s wearing a purple T-shirt.

  “Look at you!” Sandy says. “You should wear purple more often, Jack. It suits you.”

  “You think?” he replies with
a wide grin. He’s still closeted, and he probably will be for a long time, but today he couldn’t be prouder to support a cause that is supposed to protect people from the kind of person he used to be.

  That’s a good thing, I suppose.

  “Absolutely!” Sandy says, giving him a hug. “Anyway, I have to get to class.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Alfonso says.

  Chris looks at his watch again. “And I have to go talk to the press. Care to join me, Jack?”

  “Sure thing. Wouldn’t wanna miss it for the world.”

  As our little gathering disperses, I look at Phil. He’s been quiet, even quieter than usual. Something is clearly bothering him.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Looking almost distraught, he says, “I don’t have a tuxedo.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I’m sitting in my third period World History class, pretending to be listening to Mrs. Beitz droning on and on about the political, economic, and social institutions of feudal Western Europe and the Byzantine Empire during the Middle Ages. There are few times and places I’d less rather be than medieval Europe or a twenty-first-century high school class about it, so I’m not paying attention to anything around me but the clock on the wall above the door. The moment the clock hits 9:55, I raise my hand to catch Mrs. Beitz’s attention.

  “Yes, Matthew?”

  “I need to go to the restroom, please,” I say.

  With a small sigh, because no teacher will ever not display their annoyance when nature calls a student out of their classroom, Mrs. Beitz looks at her watch and writes down the time on a hall pass. As I get out of my chair, Alfonso looks at me, squinting. He knows me too well not to realize I’m up to something, and I wouldn’t put it past him to even remember that exactly one week ago I raised my hand at exactly 9:55 to ask Mrs. Beitz if I could go to the restroom. I shrug at him with a subtle smile.

  At a leisurely pace I pick up my hall pass and leave the classroom. The moment I’ve closed the door behind me, I start sprinting down the hallway. While the school handbook states that students shall be given ‘ample time to conduct essential restroom business,’ there is an ongoing debate as to what exactly constitutes ‘ample time.’ Five minutes seems to be the lowest common denominator. Most teachers will raise an eyebrow but let you get away with seven minutes, whereas ten minutes will be pushing your luck very hard with just about everyone. So I’m gonna try to be back in Mrs. Beitz’s classroom in seven minutes, and seven minutes is preciously little time for what I want to do.

  At the end of the hallway I turn right and make my way down to the second floor, taking three steps at a time and taking a five-step leap holding on to the handrail to reach the second-floor landing. Turn left, and run another thirty feet to the restroom door. The moment I push it open I see Phil step out of his classroom at the other end of the hall. My feet inside the restroom, my head sticking out in the hallway, I watch him jog towards me. When he comes within my reach I grab his arm, pull him inside and use his body to push the door shut as I move in and press my lips on his.

  After a passionate half-minute kiss, we take a break to catch our breaths. His eyes closed, his lips glistening with our saliva, Phil tilts his head back against the restroom door and smiles, his chest heaving. He opens his eyes, wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me in. We kiss again, our crotches grinding against each other, both of us physically aroused.

  “Naughty Matty,” Phil whispers in my ear.

  Putting one of my hands on his scrawny butt, I let my other hand wander and feel up the bulge in his crotch. “Look who’s talking.”

  He chuckles adorably, which makes me chuckle back.

  I put my hands on his shoulders, pull him away from the door so I can wrap my arms around his neck. Squeezing him and rubbing his back, I whisper, “I miss you so much.”

  “But I’m right here.”

  “I meant I miss you so much throughout the day, every day. I miss just sitting next to you in class, staring at you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Listen,” I say, cupping his face with my hands, “can you make it to my place today? Everyone will be out.”

  “What about your brother, though? Isn’t he still grounded?”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, but my mom is taking him to a dentist appointment. I hope they’ll make it hurt real good.”

  “Don’t say that,” Phil scolds me. “No one deserves to suffer physical pain.”

  I hate when he’s acting all saintly like that, but I’m not going to argue with him. “So, can you make it over to my place in the afternoon?”

  “I guess?” he says, moving in to kiss me again, but I lean back my head, annoyed by his apparent lack of commitment.

  “Do you want to come over?”

  “Yes?”

  That’s good enough for me, it has to be, so we exchange another very wet kiss until my gaze falls upon my watch again. I have ninety seconds to get back to class.

  “I have to go,” I say. “We have to go.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  I open the door to the hallway and stick my head out to make sure no one’s around. “I’m gonna go. You wait ten seconds, then you go.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I glare at him. “Don’t get cute with me now.”

  “Me? Never.”

  A quick final kiss, and then I run back down the hallway. When I reach the door to Mrs. Beitz’s classroom I pause for a few seconds and take a few deep breaths. I look at my watch. It’s been six minutes and forty-five seconds since I left when I open the door and get back inside. As I return my hall pass, Mrs. Beitz looks at her watch and clears her throat theatrically, but I ignore her and make my way back to my desk. Alfonso glares at me, squinting again and slowly shaking his head.

  * * *

  After picking my dirty socks off the floor and tossing them in the hamper, I comb my hair, brush my teeth, and take a shower—in that order. I make sure we have Coke in the fridge, and I place a bowl of M&Ms on my coffee table. I know Phil pays great attention to detail, so I, too, pay great attention to detail in preparation of his secret visit, not because I aspire to be like him but because I want him to show I care.

  The one detail Phil doesn’t seem to pay all that much attention to today is punctuality. He’s never late to school, which is amazing in and by itself, given the condition of his dad’s old clunker of a car, but since today’s conjugal visit is officially off the record, I can only assume Phil underestimated the time it takes him to get from his place to mine on foot, and he will be here any minute now, so I just wait patiently.

  And I wait.

  And wait.

  When he’s ten minutes late, I’m mildly annoyed.

  Fifteen minutes late, I’m mad as hell.

  Twenty minutes late, I’m getting worried.

  Half an hour late, I’m freaking out, trying—with little success—to dismiss a growing number of horror scenarios that might have led to Phil’s continued absence as paranoid nonsense: maybe he crossed the road without looking and got run over by a car. Maybe he got abducted by a child-molesting ax murderer. Maybe he got crushed by an airplane that fell out of the sky—although, to be fair, I probably would have heard that last one, the explosion, police sirens and all that. Or maybe, much more likely, there has been some kind of domestic incident. Maybe a pipe burst and Phil has to help clean up the mess. Maybe their microwave exploded and set the house on fire. Or maybe his parents threw a fit because Phil is gay, and so they locked them up in the basement and threw away the key.

  Whatever the reason Phil skipped our foreplay date may be, it can’t be a good one, and given the anxiety I’ve been experiencing in the last half hour, I can’t see myself simply shrugging it off and waiting until I see him at school tomorrow to find out what the heck is going on. What if he doesn’t even show up at school? Then I won’t be back at square one, I won’t even have left it in the first place, and square
one is a miserable place to spend the night.

  There’s no point in waiting any longer. He’s not gonna show up, and I’m not gonna feel better any time soon, so I grab my phone and my keys, and I make my way over to Phil’s place, a fifteen-minute walk away from my house. When I get there I immediately feel depressed. The area looks like the ugly stepsister of the street Jack lives in, and that one is already pretty ugly.

  Phil’s house, if you want to call it that, is a better shack, a one story house with outside walls that look sad and gray. There is no porch, no garage, no driveway. A two-hundred-square-foot patch of wilted grass separates the house from the street where Mr. Thongrivong’s old clunker is parked—and right behind it a shiny black car. And it’s not just any old car.

  It’s a freaking Tesla.

  It’s the Tesla.

  First my heart explodes.

  Then my head, as my mind is assaulted by a fireworks display of gruesome imagery of Phil and his family lying in their own blood on the kitchen floor, Special Agent Nicole Tesla towering over them with bloody hands after she has slain them all for being communist Laotian spies.

  Which means she must have lied to me when I asked her if she’s a law enforcement agent and she said no.